


make me see stars, spaceman

by AnimatedNydia, lonereedy



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Almost Crack, Bottom Tweek Tweak, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Clybe (minor), Cringe, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fanart, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Heiman (minor), Holidays, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, My First Smut, PBT, Post-Canon, References to Clue | Cluedo, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Craig Tucker, Tweek being a brat, maid outfit, powerbottom!tweek, serious and silly, story with art, with fanart by AnimatedNydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimatedNydia/pseuds/AnimatedNydia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonereedy/pseuds/lonereedy
Summary: “Bed,” he breathes between bites, “before I’m on the floor.”Craig growls in response, “I’ve got-”“Bed,” Tweek repeats, voice softening as he proudly whispers, “I win, Spaceman.”-*-*-*-Craig and Tweek Tucker are a married couple enjoying the little free time they have together over the festive season.Story by lonereedyArtwork by AnimatedNydia
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73
Collections: dec 2020 - sp creek server does holidays / winter





	make me see stars, spaceman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnimatedNydia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimatedNydia/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope you are all enjoying the last few hours of 2020!!! :O
> 
> This fic is a gift for the wonderful AnimatedNydia. They were one of the first people I interacted with when I fell headfirst into creek earlier this year. I remember loving their art on tumblr, and then being surprised when they read some of my fanfics here. I was absolutely blown away when they gifted me fanart for 'zoommates'. I always wanted to return the gesture. AN, you are such a well-loved and active member of the Discord server. You are always supporting people, sharing content, being creative and just one of the nicest people ever.
> 
> So...remember that fanart you shared of maid Tweek a while ago...? Here's a gift fic inspired by that very art. I hope you can get some enjoyment out of this! Thank you for being such an awesome friend. I love you! <3
> 
> Update Jan 2021: AnimatedNydia has drawn fanart for this story!!!!!!!! Art has now been added with permission. Once again, I am blown away. You're so talented! T.T Thank you sooo much!!! <3 <3 <3

  
  


“Make me see stars, Spaceman,” Tweek blows into his ear with a smirk, squeezing his fingertips into the bruised caramel flesh of Craig’s broad shoulders. He feels the slightest buckle of Craig’s legs at the bedroom-only pet name, and pulls back to look into his husband’s blown pupils. A bead of sweat trickles down his cupid’s bow, and Tweek’s quick to lap it up, dragging his tongue over Craig’s pinched lips before forcing his mouth open.

“Tweek, fu-” Craig pushes back, swiping his tongue over Tweek’s needle-sharp teeth, moaning as he concedes defeat. Tweek’s button nose is cold, but his tongue is red-hot as it massages his gums. Craig stumbles at the aggressive assault, toes tripping over Tweek’s discarded boxers.

A throaty chuckle reminds him he’s closed his eyes.

“You need to increase your bench weight,” Tweek teases, hooking his strong, supple calves around Craig’s thighs, digging his heels into his plump rear. “You’re gonna drop me.”

“I won’t-” Craig hisses, sentence breaking again as Tweek nips at his chin, “drop you.”

Smoldering blue-grey eyes – which Craig believes would have undressed him, if he hadn’t already done the job himself – scroll down from his face to his collarbone, admiring the defined, sweat-drenched clavicle. “Pretty sure I’ve got a higher squat count.”

“You wish,” Craig grins, as competitive in the gym as in the bedroom. “You _wish_ you had my stamina.”

Tweek raises an eyebrow, an amused smile on his kiss-bruised lips, “Is that a challenge?”

“Forget the stars; gonna show you an exoplanet,” Craig captures Tweek’s lips again just as he starts chuckling, words mumbled and swallowed, but Craig knows it’s some variation of _Fuck, I don’t remember what the hell that is_. Tweek tilts his head, purring as Craig presses kisses at the crinkled corner of his mouth. “Dammit, honey, take your shirt off.”

The fingers gripping at his shoulders tighten as Tweek voices his displeasure.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Babe-”

It’s killing Craig to see the shirt falling off of Tweek’s shoulders, crinkled and sweaty, underarms stained grey from a long day at the office. The first few buttons are unfastened, revealing one dusty pink and perky nipple, and the bottom of the shirt looks like a poor attempt at fabric origami– as is the norm for Tweek, even though Craig _knows_ he can fasten his damn shirt properly – and the sliver of delectable pale skin always sets Craig’s heart racing.

  
  


“Nuh-uh, don’t _babe_ me,” Tweek growls, “all I can see is your stupidly handsome face, and you promised me exoplanets or some outer space-related shit. Guess I’ll just have to take myself there.”

Craig blinks twice slowly in confusion, his arms still rock steady as his determined husband wriggles about like a sockeye salmon ready to spawn.

“Don’t worry, you’re coming along for the ride.”

Craig has to bite his lip in anticipation; it always riles them both up when Tweek takes the lead. Heat pools in his lower belly, muscles tightening and contracting as if he’s getting a cramp, though he’d need more than a glass of water to soothe this ache.

With one hand still gripping onto Craig’s shoulder, Tweek effortlessly slides the other down Craig’s body, over his pecs, then inwards, dipping a pinky into his belly button, thumb stroking down the dark happy trail until he reaches his goal. His hand grips Craig’s cock with fervor, giving it a few gentle pumps before smearing the red, pulsing organ with sticky pre-cum. Then, without warning or further preparation, he edges it inside his stretched-out sphincter.

His body spasms as Craig fills him up to the hilt with a few choice expletives and a long, lewd moan. Craig watches the twinge ripple through Tweek’s triceps as he controls the depth of the first few thrusts, eyes shut, tears clinging to short, amber-tinted lashes. He’s loud as he pants and screams and grunts – Clyde’s convinced Tweek has no volume control – but it’s music to Craig’s ears.

“Fuck your-your stamina,” Tweek licks a line up Craig’s throat as best he can before leaning back to lead their not-so-horizontal tango, arms burning in protest. Craig just whines in response, unable to push out words. “Fuck _you_ , Craig.”

Tweek being dominant is freaking _hot_.

Craig’s hips snap as he attempts to meet Tweek’s furious pace, fingers trembling beneath Tweek’s glutes as each thrust sends shockwaves down his quivering, sweat-soaked legs.

“Y-you’re- you’re slipping,” Tweek grunts, head thrown back in ecstasy, mouth open as he pants, loud and labored, “keep up!”

“’m _trying_ , baby.”

Tweek’s heels kick at Craig’s thighs, urging him forward with the same desperation Craig had seen in his eyes as soon as he returned home and dropped his bags, his trousers, his boxers.

“Urgh,” Tweek moans, shaking his head, blond curls flopping across his forehead, “do I have to do _everything_ by myself?” His arms slide down Craig’s shoulders, crossing his hands over at the wrists as he claws at Craig’s back. He presses himself flush against Craig’s body, his swollen length rubbing against Craig’s defined waist.

Craig has a split second to admire Tweek’s flushed face, paying close attention to how his short, lower lashes caress a cluster of pinprick-sized, tawny-toned freckles, before a jolt of pleasure knocks all thoughts out of his head. Tweek’s teasing his ear, first with his tongue, licking down his helix before nibbling at his lobe like their boys, Stripe and Squeek, at a strawberry.

“Bed,” he breathes between bites, “before I’m on the floor.”

Craig growls in response, “I’ve got-”

“Bed,” Tweek repeats, voice softening as he proudly whispers, “ _I win, Spaceman_.”

Craig obeys with a huff, throwing them both down to the edge of their Super King. Tweek’s feet point toward the ceiling, toes curled, an amused giggle escaping his throat. He slowly unfastens the remaining buttons of his shirt, shuffles his arms free, then lets it slide to the floor in a heap, sure to end up in the laundry hamper when Craig has less pressing things to attend to.

“Honey,” Craig straddles Tweek’s rosy pink body, sitting atop of his left leg as he reconnects them with a single push. “Honey, I’m _close_ ," he whines, right hand grasping at Tweek’s muscular calf, thumb pressing into the powerful soleus. His other hand rests against Tweek’s hip, using it as an anchor as he thrusts vigorously.

Tweek fists his hands into their sheets, turning his head to watch Craig push into him. “ _Mmph_ , yes, Craig, deeper, deeper.”

“Gonna, _uh_ , ’m gonna-” Craig mumbles, lost in Tweek’s warmth, “so good, baby.” He rocks his hips, heat building in his lower abdomen at every satisfying slap and squelch. Tweek’s drooling all over their freshly laundered sheets, one eye open to watch Craig come undone.

Craig squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring and mouth hanging open, revealing rows of brace-straightened teeth. His stomach muscles tense up as he rides out his release with a pleasured groan, hips still pounding into Tweek like a malfunctioning jackhammer. Tweek presses his cheek against the sheets, admiring Craig’s ravished visage; a sight reserved for him only. Craig looks _gorgeous_ , honeyed skin glowing and eyes watering. Just looking at him is enough to send Tweek over the edge, warm streaks of cum shooting over his thighs and stomach. 

Craig flops bonelessly against Tweek’s chest, pulling out so Tweek can manoeuvre his legs into a more comfortable position. His fingers scratch at the fair hairs around Tweek’s nipple as he takes deep, grounding breaths. Tweek’s hand sinks into his thick, dark locks, petting him with pure affection. 

“Better?” Craig asks eventually, voice a little raw and sleepy.

“Better,” Tweek nods, chuckling at Craig’s drowsiness, “though should I be concerned about your stamina?”

Craig tilts his head up to glare at his cheeky husband. “Gimme two minutes and we’ll see who’s most wrecked.”

“I look forward to it,” Tweek smiles, looking a lot brighter than when he staggered through the front door.

They bask in the warmth of post-coitus, legs tangled together, Craig pressing barely-there kisses against Tweek’s sternum and up his throat. He moves to sit up on his knees, placing his hands over Tweek’s flushed cheeks and pressing a long kiss to his forehead, nose brushing against the beads of sweat at Tweek’s hairline.

“Jeff or Diane?” He asks softly as he pulls away.

“Jeff,” Tweek sighs, feeling around for Craig’s hand as he lays down beside him. “I keep telling him to input his data on both systems or I can’t run my report. They _don’t_ talk to each other – he knows that – and yeah, it _sucks_ , but finance is on my back again and he’s slowing us down.”

“Fuck Jeff,” Craig says, squeezing Tweek’s hand. “You shouldn’t keep covering for him, honey.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Craig suspects there’s more to it than staying overtime to help a colleague out. His husband seems a little tense, the creasing at his eyebrows a dead giveaway – he’s usually as boneless as Craig after an intense workout between the sheets.

“ _Craig_ ,” Tweek sounds guilty, confirming Craig’s suspicions as he nibbles anxiously at his lower lip, “I’m working Christmas.”

“What? But I thought-”

“I was meant to be off,” Tweek cuts in, “I – uh – volunteered. For Jeff.”

“Fuck Jeff,” Craig grumbles again, mentally giving Tweek’s colleague the bird.

“His nephew got his diagnosis,” Tweek takes a deep breath, “cancer.”

Craig’s silent for a moment, taking back the gesture as he rubs his nose into Tweek’s flaxen curls, “Fuck cancer.”

“Yeah,” Tweek swallows, “fuck cancer.”

Tweek rolls over to face Craig, sucking in his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Craig wraps his arms around Tweek’s body, shaking his head, an unspoken _no apology needed_. “We’ll make new plans, babe. You did a _really good_ thing. I’m proud of you.”

“Mm,” Tweek hums, placing his hands on top of Craig’s and massaging his fingers, “thanks Craig.”

An untimely rumble disrupts their cuddling session, and they both look down.

“When I said I wanted you _bare_ -” Craig starts with a chuckle.

“’m hungry,” Tweek interrupts, grumbling in-time with his gurgling stomach. “Can’t help it.”

“Dinner was ready, oh, twenty-odd minutes ago,” Craig rubs Tweek’s stomach, feeling the ripples under his fingers, “ _someone_ just had different priorities.”

“What can I say,” Tweek pulls Craig into one last, lazy kiss, “I wanted dessert first.”

“Hey, no complaints here,” Craig smirks, finally pulling away so he can collect their discarded clothes. “Go wash up. I’ll change the sheets and re-heat it.”

Tweek pauses in the doorway, one hand on his hip, “Does it come with a side-order of _ass wrecking_?”

“You’re insatiable tonight,” Craig pauses as he picks up one of his socks, keeping his head down to hide the flush spreading from the tips of his ears to his neck, “but I’m sure it can be arranged.” 

*~*~

Craig blinks awake to a looping _hum_ , furrowing his eyebrows in confusion at the whirring he thought belonged to an already-forgotten dream. His eyes gradually adjust to the low light filtering through the wooden slatted blinds, admiring the warm, homely glow of their bedroom; the long, warped shadow of the closet stretches over his lower half, coating it in a muted grey not dissimilar to the Elephant’s Breath-painted wall.

Tweek’s side of the bed is cold.

It often is, even on weekends – Tweek’s body clock has him up at four most days – and his abandoned pillow is wedged between Craig’s arms. Tweek has long perfected his extraction from Craig’s iron grip: a few wiggles and nudges as he slips the soft, goose down pillow against Craig’s chest so he won’t wake up empty-handed.

His husband is thoughtful like that.

Craig takes a deep sniff of the pillow tucked under his chin, but only the scent of his favorite fabric softener remains; any fragrance he associates with Tweek left their bed with him.

It’s an effort to pull himself out of his cocoon and into the bathroom, but it’s past nine o’clock and he’s in charge of breakfast today. The faucet drowns out the repetitive whirring, but as he splashes his face, his sleep-fogged head begins to clear. Craig knows exactly what he’s listening to.

The gentle hum pulses out of the spare room down the hall; the one they’ve turned into a craft space for their projects. It’s a box room, barely big enough for the antique desk Craig was gifted from his grandmother, but it holds their narrow shelving unit: each drawer categorized by project type thanks to Craig’s label maker.

It’s full of items they’ve re-purposed or thrifted, with Tweek hoarding any scrap of fabric he can get hold of; his creative mind able to turn a shrunken, thread-loose sweater into a cowl scarf, and ripped jeans into denim placemats.

Craig knocks on the door, “Ready for breakfast, baby?”

The whirring continues, and at the lack of reply, Craig enters the room. As he predicted, Tweek’s sat at the desk, slightly hunched over, right foot pressed on the pedal of his sewing machine. Yards of black suit fabric zip through under the needle.

“Honey,” he whispers, looking over at their 6-foot thrifted male mannequin – lovingly christened Greg – squeezed into the corner of the room. He’s wearing a pair of straight-leg trousers, rolled at the cuffs since Craig has another five inches on him. Only yesterday, it was material on a roll. “Waffles or pancakes?”

Tweek pauses and flops back in his seat. “Mmm, thanks Craig.”

He flips up the foot of his machine and inspects the stitching up-close. Tweek’s a perfectionist when it comes to his hobbies. Step-by-step videos of his painstakingly constructed 1/6th scale tanks have racked up thousands of hits on YouTube, with fellow model builders regularly commenting about the attention-to-detail that Tweek puts into his creations.

Craig only needs to take a few strides to reach Tweek’s chair; he gently rests his hands on his husband’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs into the small of his back. Tweek groans as he massages a particularly tight spot, blue-grey eyes rolling upwards to express his gratitude.

“Take a break, honey,” Craig urges, pressing a lingering kiss against Tweek’s forehead, loose blond curls tickling his nose. “One cinnamon waffle and a coffee coming right up.”

“I’m having second thoughts,” Tweek sighs, pressing his eyes closed. He sounds defeated, and Craig has no doubt it’s from the pressure of the last-minute change of plans.

“So, pancakes?” he says with a smile, and Tweek opens one eye to glare at him.

“Maybe I should have gone for double-breasted?” Tweek sighs as they lace their hands together. Craig tugs him to his feet and hugs him close. Tweek sinks into the embrace, resting his forehead against Craig’s sturdy chest and squeezing his hand just a little too tight as he breathes in quietly for four seconds. Craig rakes his free hand through Tweek’s messy hair, listening out for the “whoosh” as Tweek exhales, grounding himself.

As Tweek completes his cycle, Craig looks down at the sewing table; it’s covered in fabric off-cuts, parchment paper, threads and pins. There’s also a stack of reference photos for an Anglican priest and a scantily clad French maid. Craig has to swallow around the lump in his throat. “How long have you been in here?”

Tweek nuzzles his nose against Craig’s chest, “Hmm? What time is it now?”

“Just after nine.”

“Oh,” Tweek looks surprised, “about four hours. I checked on the boys first.”

He’s been so hyper-focused that there isn’t even an empty cup of coffee to be seen. Craig suspects he hasn’t been to the bathroom either. His hair is sticking up in all angles and he’s still wearing his sleepwear: Craig’s old NASA top, faded and ratty, and a pair of navy boxers just peeking out from under the tee.

“New choice. Bath or breakfast?”

Tweek’s reluctant to peel himself off Craig’s chest, nose pressed against his husband’s firm sternum, “I’d vote bath, _buuuuut_ ,” he looks up coyly, “it depends on whether you’d be joining me?”

“Well, I’d better make sure the workaholic doesn’t drown,” Craig teases, his forest green eyes drawn to Tweek’s bare legs, to hair so blond and fine it’s invisible, though Craig can read the constellations of dimples as easily as the night sky. “C’mon,” he gently pulls him away from the sewing station, “before you stitch over your finger.”

“That was _one_ time, Craig,” Tweek huffs, though he agrees it was one time too many, and follows his husband to the bathroom.

Craig runs the water into their tub, throwing in a rocket-shaped bath bomb from Tricia, whilst Tweek sits on top of the toilet, lost in his thoughts. It’s only when a feather-light touch caresses his cheek that he comes back to reality.

“From a pastor to a priest,” Tweek smiles, pressing a kiss to his husband’s thumb before taking it into his mouth and giving it a long suck. Craig whines when it’s released with a pop. Tweek’s being naughtier than usual, and the excitement of what might come later shoots straight to his cock. “Bebe chose well.”

“Actually, Clyde was pissing himself at the thought of me playing a closeted gay guy,” Craig scoffs, stripping his tee slowly so that Tweek can shamelessly ogle his toned physique. He kicks off his underpants and tosses his clothes into the hamper – dirty laundry never stays on the floor long in the Tucker residence – then he turns his attention to a far-too-overdressed Tweek.

Deciding to play coy, Tweek averts his gaze. “Turn around,” he whispers, fingers gripping at his muscular, pasty thighs.

“Damn it, baby,” Craig’s smooth as honey tone trickles onto his tongue as he licks down Tweek’s throat, hot and wet, “you’re so _fucking_ gorgeous, Tweek.”

“Turn around, Craig,” Tweek repeats, a little more demanding this time, and Craig fights against his desire to slip the shirt off over the blond’s head and litter his collarbone with kisses. “Be good and you can take off my boxers,” he pulls Craig down by his arm, lips bumping against his ear as he saucily whispers, “ _with your teeth_.”

*~*~

Tweek’s phone pings as Craig’s blow drying his hair. It’s Bebe, confirming their evening plans. He quickly taps a message back, almost whimpering as fingers scratch at his scalp.

“Kenny?” Craig asks, switching the heat to low so they can talk.

Tweek shakes his head slightly, “Bebe. Set-up should be ready by four. It’s going to be a push to finish the costumes on time.”

It’s tradition to spend an evening with the Donovans for monthly murder mystery night. Bebe adores hosting parties and dressing up, and insists on making it a special event. Tweek knows she’ll pull out all the stops for the ‘Clue’ inspired evening and be the most beautiful Miss Scarlett ever. He expects her husband won’t be able to keep his eyes off her as the dapper Professor Plum. She assigned Mrs. White to Tweek – _not the frumpy, mean-looking cook, the skittish, young maid_ – and Tweek can’t wait to spoil his husband in his costume of choice.

“Can I help?” Craig asks as he runs his fingers through Tweek’s damp curls.

“Craig, you asked where the _gay_ stitch was,” Tweek deadpans, wriggling his fuzzy-sock covered toes.

Craig scoffs as he gently pushes Tweek’s head down to reach the curls at the base of his neck, “You said there’s a straight stitch, honey. How was I to know the sewing world isn’t inclusive? That zigzag one screams _Kenny_.”

“Your support is all I need, besides,” Tweek smiles, closing his eyes, the heat from the hairdryer nowhere near as hot as the fire in his belly, “I’ll be the one at _your service_ later.”

Craig grunts, turning the setting back up to high. He tries to ignore the twitching in his pants. A reminder that he’s stuck in a room with Cartman for hours does the trick.

*~*~

They finish breakfast – more like brunch – pancakes stacked high with maple syrup and blueberries, then Tweek disappears back into the craft room. Craig gives Stripe and Squeek their floor time, puts on a load of laundry, and tunes his acoustic guitar. He periodically brings Tweek fresh cups of coffee and watches as fabric turns into costumes. A couple of hours later, a beautiful, black, single-breasted cassock is draped over Greg’s muscular plastic shoulders.

Even though he’s making great progress, Tweek seems increasingly upset at every coffee break. Craig peppers his face with little kisses and gushes over the quality of his sewing skills, but he can tell his husband is struggling.

“It’s too short,” Tweek moans as he accepts coffee number four, hair partly pushed back by a lacy headdress and face flushed in embarrassment, “I tried it on; it barely covers my ass.”

“More temptation for a corrupt priest,” Craig smirks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Tweek’s ear. “You look good in everything, sweetheart. And what’s that famous saying? Less is more?”

  
  


“Perv,” Tweek mumbles, pressing the cup to his lips.

“You tried on the shoes yet?” Craig asks, spying the footwear Tweek’s borrowed from Tricia for the evening: a pair of black, round-toe, block-heeled court shoes.

Embarrassed to be the same shoe size as his sister-in-law – though since she has an inch on Tweek, it isn’t surprising – Tweek nods. “They’re easier to walk in than I thought.”

“And Bebe’s lending you the thigh highs? I’m a lucky man, honey. You’re going to be the best-looking Mrs. White anyone’s ever seen.”

“If you’ve seen any recent box art, that’s not much of a compliment,” Tweek laughs, passing the empty cup back to Craig. “Just need to attach the bows and I’m done.”

“Going all out with the theme,” Craig nods appreciatively, “Good. I’m going to need all the distractions I can get for enduring a night with everyone’s least favorite fatass.”

“Heidi’ll keep him in check,” Tweek reassures him, “and I’m sure Bebe’s got a contingency plan for if he’s the murderer. Again.”

Craig rolls his eyes, “Remind me why I keep saying ‘yes’ to these things?”

“You don’t,” Tweek says matter-of-factly. “I do, and you’re my plus one.”

Craig can’t help the rumble of a chuckle that escapes as he shakes his head at his feisty husband. It’s true that their social calendar only has events in it thanks to Tweek – and on occasion, Bebe and Clyde – but Craig’s more than happy to go with what Tweek wants. His gaze drops to the china cups in his hands: Tweek’s completely empty and his own with a slick residue of hot chocolate.

“’m gonna clean up, then I’ll get ready.”

“Wait,” Tweek calls, just catching Craig before he leaves the room. “ _Least favorite_ fatass?”

“Babe, everyone knows if I had to choose, my favorite’s still Clyde.”

*~*~

“I’m gonna ham it up tonight,” Tweek says as the taxi pulls up outside the Donovan’s residence. “Let’s have some fun.”

Craig wishes he had Tweek’s acting ability, but his mood is still sour that Cartman and Heidi are attending this month instead of Token and Nichole, who are spending Christmas at their vacation house in the Hamptons.

He rings the bell and it’s Kenny who pulls open the door, dressed in a suit too large for him – it’s the one he always wears when he hosts, on loan from Mr. Donovan – and greets them with a warm smile.

“Good evening,” he crows dramatically, bowing his head, “ooooh, arriving with the hired help, Reverend? Naughty boy. Or is this your beard, hmm?”

“Let us in, doofus,” Craig groans, eager to get in so they can start the game, eat and get back home for some maid dress sexy times. It’s Tweek’s turn to please tonight after Craig played the pizza delivery boy last weekend, bringing Tweek the extra sausage at no extra cost.

Kenny takes one look at Tweek, eyes shooting to his bare legs, and wolf whistles, “I don’t give a fuck _who’s_ killing me tonight, I already know my cause of death,” he jokes, reaching out to cop a feel, but Tweek’s faster, grasping his wrist and halting Kenny’s lecherous hand in its tracks.

“Do behave, _Mr. Boddy_ ,” Tweek’s tone is innocent and veering on sickly sweet. He leans forward to whisper, “or I won’t let you eavesdrop outside the laundry room later.”

“Then, if you please,” Kenny steps back, letting them into the Donovan’s modest townhouse. Their other guests are already seated at the dining table.

“Fiiiiinally,” Colonel Mustard bellows as they enter the decorated dining room, “lost track of time feeling up your choir boys, Rev?”

“I’m Anglican, not Catholic,” Craig deadpans, taking his seat next to Miss. Scarlett.

Mrs. Peacock fans herself, looking poised and elegant, “Now, now, Colonel. Is that any way to speak in front of a lady?”

“Lady? No ladies here. I see a slut, a ho and an old dame,” he scoffs, and Heidi jabs him in the ribs with her fan.

“Well, I think you’re all looking _fabulous_.”

Tweek hovers at the edge of the table. As the maid, he’s expected to help with the serving of the courses. Kenny takes his seat at the end of the table, and the game begins.

“Welcome, esteemed guests, to my humble abode.” Cartman makes some sort of choking noise, and Clyde kicks him under the table. Bebe always works hard on their murder mystery décor, and he won’t stand for any unwarranted criticism. “Now, I know you’ve all had beef with me in the past,” _ha, that’s an understatement,_ Craig thinks, eyebrows furrowed, “so I sincerely hope that we can make amends over some delicious food tonight. I don’t know about you, but I’m _dead_ excited.”

Kenny loves playing the host. For whatever reason, playing dead and resurrecting himself for the next time they play comes naturally to him.

“Please open up your gift boxes and enjoy your evening.”

They open their boxes to find sealed envelopes and additional accessories. Kenny saunters off to “relieve himself” with Tweek at his heels, the blond returning alone with the wheeled dining cart that Craig built for them and wearing his borrowed stockings. Then, continuing with his errands, he pops the champagne and serves their drinks. Finally, he dutifully unrolls the dust sheet with the silhouette of the murder victim, Mr. Boddy, and, as only Tweek can – waiting for Cartman to press his lips against his glass – screams bloody murder.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” Cartman starts coughing and spluttering on his first sip of bubbly. Clyde nearly pisses himself laughing, whilst Heidi unenthusiastically pats him on the back.

“He’s dead!” Tweek weeps, his acting skills second to none, “Oh, Mr. Boddy! Who could have done this to you?”

“Awful business, murder,” Miss Scarlett says, using her empty champagne flute as a mirror as she reapplies her red lipstick. “I, for one, don’t like to get my hands dirty.”

“We all know whose hands are dirtiest here,” Cartman shoots a look at Craig, “you got another sin to confess to?”

Clyde’s stomach makes an untimely gurgle, and he gives the group an embarrassed half-smile, “I’m not sure we’ll solve anything on an empty stomach.”

They start with the pea soup; Mrs. Peacock finding a clue in her bread roll. She follows the instruction to look underneath the cloche on the cart. Hidden inside is another slip of paper, and she gives a wry smile, pocketing the clue. The first round is over pretty quickly. Clyde delights in questioning Craig’s sexuality – and Bebe shoots apologetic glances since she wrote the cards – but he answers, robotically and uninterested, following the directions on his cue card. Colonel Mustard makes some wild predictions and Professor Plum drools over Miss. Scarlett, completely missing out on a non-verbal clue.

Reverend Green is wiping the gravy off his face with a napkin when he spies a handwritten clue. _The murder weapon was NOT a rope._ He looks at his checklist and crosses off the weapon.

Professor Plum has a clue stuck to the bottom of his flute. He fails to notice, and whilst glugging down the last of his bubbly, the rest of the guests spot it. _The murder weapon was NOT a knife._ Miss. Scarlett just rolls her eyes, and they all cross it off their list.

The champagne keeps flowing, with Clyde keeping an almost endless supply in stock for their ‘classier’ game nights. Once they’ve finished eating main, Tweek finds a clue written underneath his clear glass dinner plate. _Pretend to drop your napkin. Your next clue is under Miss. Scarlett’s chair._

Miss. Scarlett is conveniently seated next to the dear Reverend, so of course Tweek makes sure to bend down and flash his lacy panties in the priest’s direction as he pulls the clue free. _You were NOT in the conservatory when the murder happened._

Tweek chooses to share this information with Craig, whispering it into his ear rather than the traditional method of handing over the slip of paper. Craig’s hand runs up and down Tweek’s thigh as a _thank you_ , a finger dipping into the cuff of one seductive white stocking.

  
  


Colonel Mustard starts pretending to wretch at their public display of affection. Mrs. Peacock frowns at him. “At least they’re playing as a couple,” she hisses under her breath.

“Hey, Clyde and Bebe aren’t helping each other out, boo.”

“That’s because I want to win,” Bebe unapologetically shrugs, running a hand through her wanded curls.

Clyde just nods, “Yeah. And she tells me I’m shit at this.”

They reach dessert and discover more clues on plates. Craig shares his clue with Tweek, realizing that between the two of them, they can guess the murderer, weapon and location.

“Not again,” Tweek whispers as they share notes, “you think this was rigged?”

“The bastard does love killing Kenny,” Craig shrugs. “At least it’s nearly over. I’m getting hungry for something else.”

Colonel Mustard puts on an Oscar-winning performance as he opens the final envelope to announce his prediction and reveal, yet again, that he is the murderer. Everyone else seems to know this already and they grumble out a collected sigh of congratulations, though Clyde is applauding him as if he’s won a Nobel prize, tears collecting in the corner of his eyes. He dabs at them with a napkin and finally spots a clue he missed earlier.

“You’re so smart, baby,” he turns to Bebe, “I’d _never_ have thought to check these!”

“This was _SO_ fun, you guys,” Cartman helps himself to another slice of cake, “and since the dead guy won’t be needing this…” He shoves a huge forkful of Red Velvet into his vacuously open mouth, “For you, _Kinny_.”

Tweek gently pulls off his stockings, then nudges Craig’s shoulder, “Let’s walk home?”

“You sure?” Craig asks, not quite fancying a twenty-minute journey is his priest get-up, and worrying about Tweek’s lack of layers in the cold. They’re both a little buzzed on the bubbly, and Tweek’s fearless enough to walk about half-dressed even without any liquid confidence.

“M-hmm.”

“Alright then.”

“Thanks for an _almost_ wonderful evening,” Tweek presses a kiss against Bebe’s cheek, “and for lending me these.” He returns the stockings and watches as Heidi and Clyde tackle clean up with Cartman moaning about having to help whilst actively not helping.

“You sure you don’t need us to do anything?”

Bebe shook her head, “Thanks for the offer, sweetie. You always help. Go and spend some time with your man. You deserve it.”

They almost make it to the door before Kenny corners them. “So…one of you _isn’t_ going to ‘fall’ into the dryer tonight?” he mumbles, visibly disappointed.

“I don’t feel like sharing, so,” Tweek tuts, “voyeur privilege revoked.”

“Hard ass.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Craig smirks, “but I’ve got a date with that ass. Enjoy your hand, _McCordick_.”

They leave Kenny behind, stepping out into the cold and quickly starting to sober up. The sidewalks are lined with warm white lights, flickering and sparkling like stationary fireflies. The moon is full and round, a perfect circle, untouched by the wisps of clouds.

“It’s so beautiful,” Tweek beams, cuddling up closer to Craig as they walk beneath the festive décor threaded onto yard fences and wrapped around neatly trimmed shrubs. It reminds Tweek of being on the set of a Christmas movie. If only they each had a hot chocolate for the walk home. It’s deathly quiet except for the tap-tapping of Tweek’s heels. “I can’t believe it’s so close to Christmas.”

Craig scans the streets before admiring the lights, looking out for any late-night perverts who might be hoping to catch a glimpse of his husband in a bordering-on-indecent one-piece. “Yeah. We’re lucky Bebe’s so good at organising events. I didn’t think we’d get one in this month.”

“It was nice,” Tweek hums, leaning in to Craig as they walk arm in arm. “Now it’s gonna be a hard couple of weeks. I’m sorry that was our last meal out of the year.”

“That’s ok,” Craig shrugs, “at least Clyde could take our reservation.”

Tweek glances up at him, cheeks already turning pink, feeling the nip in the air, “It was sweet of you to give it to him. You’re such a softie.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“So sweet.”

“Am not.”

“ _Are too_.”

Craig releases Tweek’s arm to swing himself around a decorated lamppost, “You’re the sweet one. Sweeter than sugar, honey.”

“Oh no,” Tweek hides his giggle behind his hand as Craig keeps one hand on the post.

“Sugar,” he cries out, completely tone deaf, “ah, honey, honey! You are my candy _boy_ ,” he moves forward, jumping onto a bench, arms wide open and his hips shaking. “And you got me wanting youuuu!”

“Stop! Stop! My ears,” Tweek jokingly pulls at the bottom of his husband’s cassock, Craig towering over him from his elevated position, “don’t fall off, idiot!”

“Oh sugar!” Craig winks at him, “Pour a little sugar on it, honey,” he takes hold of Tweek’s hand, trying to pull him up onto the bench. His husband relents with a sigh, gripping onto Craig’s arm as he struggles in the heels.

They sing together, and in retrospect, it must have been quite a sight for anyone else out so late to see two men in fancy dress on a frosty night, grooving on a street bench under the festive red, white and green glow of the Christmas lights.

“Pour a little sugar on it, baby!”

“Make your life so sweet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

A sudden shiver racks Tweek’s body and Craig puts an end to the song, swiftly unbuttoning his cassock to drape over the blond’s shoulders.

“Such a gentleman,” Tweek’s teeth chatter as he pulls it closer around him. “I didn’t used to feel the cold. Shit, I could run around half-naked and it wouldn’t bother me. Must be getting old.”

Craig presses a quick kiss to his icy temple, “Happens to us all, sweetheart. Come on, let’s get back and warm up.”

Tweek kicks off his shoes, fluttering his lashes at Craig. “My feet are sore.”

“And?” Craig teases, pretending he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Tweek wants right now.

“Since these belong to a Tucker, it’s a Tucker’s responsibility,” Tweek huffs.

Craig puts a finger under his chin, “Hmm? Is that so? And _who_ wanted complete authenticity tonight? Even when a concerned priest was shot down after checking _countless_ times about bringing a spare pair of footwear.”

“Well,” Tweek smirks, “technically, that’s also a Tucker’s responsibility.”

“You’re damn right, _Tucker_ ,” Craig grins, bending down so Tweek can scramble up onto his back.

“Thanks, Craig,” Tweek breathes hotly into his ear.

“You can thank me later,” Craig says as he piggybacks his demanding husband, “I still think your parents should let you off. It’s fucking insane they expect you to cover the weekend before Christmas after a full work week.”

“Well, you know Dad. He’s all about giving up our comfort for those in need…of a hot beverage.”

“Selfish, avaricious jerk,” Craig grumbles, “You know, Papa T. was inconsolable this morning when I told him we couldn’t be there for Christmas Eve.”

“I know. I’m gutted we can’t spend as much time with your family,” Tweek sighs, resting his head on top of Craig’s thick, dark hair.

“ _Our family_ ,” Craig reminds him gently.

Tweek swallows the lump in his throat. Even now, years after tying the knot and a lifetime of dating, Tweek still can’t believe he gets to call the Tuckers his own. “Wait a minute, you’re always calling my dad ‘your father’.”

“Oh, you can keep him,” Craig teases, pressing his thumbs into Tweek’s sturdy bare thighs. “You belong to the Tuckers now.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“It is.”

“I’m glad everyone else’s been so understanding about work,” Tweek adds as Craig turns the corner and their apartment complex comes into view.

“I don’t like it,” Craig says, “but I can understand it. I’m gonna make good use of your last free weekend, honey.”

“I can’t wait,” Tweek grins, pressing a kiss to the tip of Craig’s ear. “ _Think I’ve already made a mess of my panties_.”

“You’re so _fucking_ naughty,” Craig lets Tweek slide off his back, pants growing uncomfortably tight as they escape the cold, walking hand in hand back to their bedroom. Craig loosens his collar and gulps for air, staggering back to sit on the edge of their bed. He’s practically salivating as he watches Tweek drop to his knees, blue-grey eyes dewy and lips wet as he pulls down the zipper of Craig’s pants with his teeth.

“Need a little help with something, priest?”

Craig can only throw back his head and moan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 I really do appreciate everyone who has taken the time (and effort) to read this story. This one was a bit of a challenge for me because it contains my first ever smut scene. It was quite intimidating sending this for beta reading, and there's still part of me that's nervous to share it here. I was really nervous and debated pulling this story, but it's a gift fic and it now has beautiful art embedded, so it will be staying here! I hope the smutty scene wasn't too awful, but I'm open to comments and critiques! I'd love to know your thoughts on it and the rest of the fic! :)
> 
> There are a lot of people who I'd like to give my gratitude and thanks to for this one. First, the sweet and lovely tlinrookie, who kindly offered to beta read this and gave me useful suggestions, corrections, guidance and encouragement. Rookie, I'm so grateful for your kind feedback and your recommendation to use the first line as the title! Also, a huge thank you to VibratingBlondeChild and xenolith1245, who worked together to create an absolutely amazing fic with art featuring PBT ('There's Something About a Well-Dressed Man in a Suit': please read it if you haven't already!) This encouraged me to have a go at writing some of my own PBT smut. I really appreciated your interest and support for my smut attempt in the server. I have great admiration for craigorytucker, Queen of smut, and I was hugely grateful to receive their 'smut writing 101 guide' to help boost my confidence! :D
> 
> And finally, I cannot forget to express my love, thanks and gratitude to all my creek friends in the sp creek server and beyond. You are all absolutely amazing, and the inspiration, support and guidance you continue to share is invaluable. I am so very grateful for you all. I couldn't be happier to be part of such a fun, positive and talented group. If anyone reading this is 18+ and wants to join this wonderful Discord group, please let me know and I'll be happy to send you an invitation. :)


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